


Submission Mission

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Series: LowRes [7]
Category: Watch Dogs (Video Games)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Domination, Exhibitionism, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Friendship, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Submission, Vaginal Fingering, Weed, sixty nine action, substances, those fury ones...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 21:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11586276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Hellofictionismylifelove asked: Hi are you still doing Wrench and Lowres Fics? If so could we get a follow up to the last one, maybe involving those handcuffs? ;)A/N: I had a lot of fun with this one, Fiction. I hope you enjoy this, there's a lot of smut in here. <3No warning.





	Submission Mission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hellofictionismylifelove](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hellofictionismylifelove).



“... you-you're keeping an eye out… right?”

“Of course,” Wrench chirps as if he’s working on a motherboard and not the slippery, hyper-sensitive bulb of your clit. He’s got those twin hearts blinking down on you as his hips dip and curl against the side of your thigh in a lewd, giddy dry hump. You shudder and kick your feet out wider, spreading your legs so his fingers can circle your clit faster; more precise despite how much you’re starting to squirm.

What had started out as a harmless pinch and grab became Wrench getting all hot and bothered behind the mask - all hard up behind his zipper too. 

Before you knew what was happening, Wrench had gone for your belt buckle, desperate to get his hand down the tight fit of your jeans. And... now? - now he’s pressing you into the support beam by the couch, and even though his wrist is trapped by your undone zipper, he’s not letting it ruin the moment one fucking bit. 

A colorful string of curses rushes through perforated leather and voice synthesizers, pouring on the end of a few intimate grunts as Wrench’s clothed erection tries to bruises your hipbone. One of his spikes pokes hard inside the shell of your ear, dimpling skin but, honestly? - He could be drawing blood for how little you care over the mounting pleasure. It’s one of those feelings that gets your heart jackhammering, and the urgency makes what Wrench is doing all the better.

“I feel like you're being way too quiet,” Wrench says, breath leaking through the perforated leather hard enough that it warms the side of your face, “this is some premo handiwork right here.”

His other hand, currently at the small of your back, starts teasing the denim hem just above your ass, “Should I get… creative? I can stuff a finger up your-” 

“Don’t even,” you gasp, swallowing thickly as his slippery fingers pause and press deep, igniting a dense nugget of sunshine, “... think about it… fuck, dude… this is so dumb.” 

It’s stupidly unnecessary to be doing this out in the open while any number of your friends could come down those stairs and catch you both red-handed. 

Too many close calls already. 

Now it’s starting to feel like Wrench does this to you for shits and gigs. Either way, it’s selfish, but it also feels ridiculously good, so you don’t bother stopping him.

Wrench laughs, agreeing in a hum of static. His middle and forefinger pinch, squeezing your clit before dragging the delicate nerve through the merciless edge of his digits. You feel every little bit of hardened skin and callus… enough sensation to make you falter and moan.

You shudder, knees buckling but Wrench just chuckles at your expense and slides an arm around the back of your waist, gripping the cusp of your ribs as he picks up the pace once more.

His practiced touch feels too good to worry about getting a few indents on your face or, apparently, getting caught for that matter. 

Yup, stupid. 

You decide you’re going to add stupid - in a loving way of course - to the descriptors you use for Wrench because… oh, shit…

“... fuuuck.”

He’s become a master at this… 

With a less-than-innocent grunt, Wrench’s wrist pops, twisting and churning and working you into a sweaty fervor. Every firm swipe makes your clit bounce underneath raw flesh, fucked with those engineer-like fingers, sending dull pangs of pleasure down into your belly.

Sure, fuck… let Wrench give you that pierced cock of his any day, you think, but there's something special about the way his fingers play you like a fucking Gibson. It's something altogether having someone, especially someone like Wrench, know what strings to pull. Sometimes it feels like he knows your body as well as you do by now. 

Wrench’s display sidelines the stairwell behind you. It's just a second spared before he’s throwing double-zeros down between your thighs, watching the peek of skin as he finger fucks it carefully. Double hearts blink, and you melt, figuratively as well as literally, at the enraptured sight of him. 

Watching him, watching you… it’s pretty hot. 

This edge of danger - wondering if someone could show up halfway in - makes everything Wrench is doing way hotter somehow. You don't think you've got an exhibition kink or anything… but with the way your heart races as Wrench starts talking dirty, muttering about how “you're a fucking mess” and “if you don't start moaning louder,” he was going to “make you beg for it”... well, suffice to say the whole situation gets to you. 

With that threat made so close to the finish line, you swallow a rebuttal and tip your hips forward, bearing down into his frantic touch and start moaning loud enough that Wrench sighs, grateful and ragged. The thought of Game Masters throwing dice over the muffled sounds of your pleasure is enough to make your cheeks go fire engine red. 

Wrench whistles, groaning about how he's “one moan away from cumming” himself.

In the midst of sighing and grinning, rolling down into his nimble working fingers - rubbing your clit oh-so-sweetly - the sound of footsteps on the stairwell tickles your ear drums. Those rubber sneaker taps trigger you like an oncoming stampede. 

“... fuck!” It's a hiss, barely a word, but Wrench’s fingers don't stop despite his display flashing double-nines and then those skinny exclamation marks.

The fuckestick wanted to keep going?! Oh, fuck no. Your reaction is violent.

Double-zeros stare down at you and in a flash of panic, you shove Wrench away - full on pro wrestler move - to the hard floor just in time to hear Sitara arguing over Marcus’ excuses. Something about traffic lights and sushi… and holy fucking hell, Wrench was supposed to be keeping an eye out! 

What the everloving fuck!?

It’s a narrow escape, but Sitara and Marcus seem blissfully unaware, lost in a pointless disagreement, not bothering to spare a single look your way as your jeans sag under your hip bones and Wrench lays in a heap on the… on the...

Fuck me, you think, staring down with wide, glassy eyes at the display before you. 

By your feet you catch sight of Wrench, still laid out on the floor, panting behind the studded leather mask like he’s just finished a 5k in the Frisco summer heat with pixel stars beaming brightly and a boner that practically pushes the teeth of his jeans apart. If it wasn’t for the sound he lets loose, you could have assumed he was just startled, same as you, but that whine - it’s so damn telling.

You both played off the scene like Wrench was just… being Wrench when Marcus finally makes his way over to the couch, looking whipped like a dog before throwing himself on the cushions. 

Still high off Wrench’s attentions, you watch as Marcus rests his face down in the soft fabric, recalling that one time Wrench got way too full of pent up aggression and bent you over right there - right where Marcus had his nose dig into the fabric. You feel like an asshole for fucking on the communal furniture… but one look at Wrench, whose stifling chuckles with double carets says he feels wholly different about that matter...

The frame was still a bit wobbly too.

“Yo, why are you so sweaty,” Marcus asks, half-muffled in the cushions with one bleary eye aimed up at you.

With practiced ease, you shrug, “I dunno. What is this? - twenty questions or something?” 

Marcus’ responding chuckle is muted as you give Wrench a soft kick. You smirk when he calls you a ‘laser brain’ - and make your way to the printer to see what Sitara found out last night. Hopefully, she’s got a job that’ll get you out of HQ, cause any more time alone with Wrench and one of you is going to explode and may the great spaghetti monster help whoever has to witness that mess...

Two days later, while Sitara has you perched on the railing that spans the Frisco Bay Bridge, it occurs to you that Wrench has shown you that submissive side more than once - more than a handful of times really. 

His undisclosed kink, which you've been avoiding for the past few months now, makes you nervous for some reason. You’re not meek, at least not as docile as you think you are sometimes, but it could be that the idea of being in charge sets off potential-failure-alarms and your fear of ruining things has kept you from doing a lot in life. Thanks to Wrench and the rest of DedSec, you’ve said yes to things you wouldn’t dare have done a few years ago.

How can you sit here now, uploading a Trojan to the bridge’s ctOS with it’s two-hundred and fifty feet drop, and find yourself more nervous over the idea of throwing Wrench around a bit than dropping to your untimely death?

Wrench likes being manhandled. 

You get it because you like it, maybe love it, when Wrench leaves behind bruises and loses a bit of control. He likes being dominated in ways sometimes too subtle to pick up on by themselves, but as a whole, it's obvious. Wrench cums harder when you’re on top; sliding wetly in his lap so he can gaze up at you. He likes it when you talk dirty or shove him around. That one time you helped him angle his head between your legs, and told him exactly what he needed to do to make you go full-nuclear, made him jizz in his pants with just a few thrusts into the Charger’s fender… yeah… that was super hot.

Next time you two had an hour to spare, you wanted to have some more fun on that beat up charger in his garage.

The times you've gotten high and overly confident have gotten immediate reactions out of him as well and the other night wasn’t the first time you've pushed him around. Wrench, for all his violent outburst and daredevil antics, likes submitting to you and… and all you can think about now are the fuzzy handcuffs in your locker that, upon closer inspection, were actually made of legit metal, wrapped in purple, faux fur. 

With all the chaos Douche-ahn left behind, DedSec has been busier than ever and you both sort of forgot about them, or at least you forgot about them. 

Who knows what seedy things go through Wrench’s mind. 

Hell… the stuff he bothers to tell you about is frightening enough at times, if not incredibly hot. But in reality, enjoying a bit of bossing around in bed is pretty tame, and you can think of a few advantages to giving Wrench a taste of what he wants. It’s not like it’ll even be the craziest thing you’ve done with him, not by a long shot.

Just the thought of indulging Wrench’s obsession is making your fingers lapse over the keyboard; fucking up a line of code that has to be imputed again… and then again when you get a flash of Wrench stretched out and shivering with cum spurting over his decorated stomach.

Sitara kicks the railing with a sigh, “Come on, what’s the holdup, LowRes. Oh, wait. I got it… don’t tell me. You’re thinking about lover boy a.k.a. the masked maniac that literally won’t stop assaulting your phone.”

“I put it on silent… also, I’m almost done,” you reply, sounding unfazed but far from it. With a bite of your tongue, you finish the line of code, hit enter and deflate back into the firm scaffolding as the ctOS junction ‘beeps’ a second before your laptop ‘pings.’

“There, that should do it,” you sigh, laying your legs flat out along the corrugated metal flooring.

Wrench, you think absentmindedly, looking out across the glimmering Bay. You suppose it's more like a kink or a turn-on than an obsession, but trying to spot the differences between terms was just a desperate attempt to stop thinking about it. And in order to get yourself back down to the central pier without falling to your death, you’ll need to stop thinking about him.

Sitara shakes her head, throwing you an exasperated look before swinging a thigh over the ladder, “Come on, girl. Can’t keep the ladies waiting.”

“... gonna tell Marcus you called him a lady,” you smirk, closing your laptop.

“Fair enough, now come on! I’m ready to get my drink on!”

Like a natural, Sitara slides down the ladder with a ‘whoosh’ of breath; her laughter dimming as she reaches the lower platform. Fucking show-off, you think, only mildly envious.

The wind rattles the supports underneath your feet as you make your way down, but it helps to focus on Sitara’s reassurance that the scaff is supposed to move, so the winds don’t knock them down. Architectural design. 

It’s meant to move, you repeat to yourself, taking one step down at a time. Still, it’s incredibly unnerving.

Baby steps, you remind yourself, feeling the shake of metal underneath you as it tries to trigger a mild panic - a panic that pales in comparison to the mess you’re making of yourself thinking about Wrench and those handcuffs. 

Oh, god. Stop thinking about it. Now… now is so not the time.

You do your best to stop the filthy fantasies as they come and go with each step downward. Against the high winds, you imagine cuffing Wrench’s thin wrists together, maybe securing him to his work bench… or any solid mass for that matter. 

It’s a long descent down ladders and layered platforms, the further down you both get, the better you can hear Wrench and Marcus chatting on the boat that’s docked at the base of the pier, ready and waiting to take you and Sitara out for pizza and beers. The closer to solid earth you get, the louder Wrench’s sonic voice gets, and the easier the fantasies come.

Finally, with your guts in your throat, you straddle the last ladder, feeling much less dizzy even though Sitara grabs at your hips without warning; easing you down to the solid cement platform with its millions of years worth of silt, rock, and mantle underneath. You actually want to kiss the sea salt tang of concrete - fuck, you’d lick it at this point.

The San Francisco Bay stares back at you again, glistening like spilled party glitter under the white hot sun. Yeah, it was pretty from the bridge, but it’s more poignant from an even level.

Sitara’s husky chuckle blends in with the lapping waves that huddle around the pier, sending the boat just around the pillar to and fro. She wraps an arm around your shoulders and smirks out at the Bay, “And to think you were gonna let Marcus have this view.”

You smile, “Isn’t worth turning into fish food, but it’s nice enough.”

Despite the dregs of fear in your stomach, it is beautiful - one of those things you forget about when it’s always there. Most people would have to spend bookoo amounts of money to see this, and here you are, seeing it for free… while toppling a surveillance system in the process. 

Pretty badass… 

Would have been nice to scale the bridge with Wrench, maybe fool around a bit while the sun sets, but having Sitara to share the day with was nice too. Second choice, you think… or maybe first. The girl did know her way around the city better than anyone.

“Okay,” Sitara grins, squeezing you up in a side-hug, “pull out your phone. I wanna see exactly how bad I can tease Wrench. I bet he’s left like twenty messages at least. At. Least!”

With a groan, you tug your phone out, angle the display away from the sun until the screen triggers and… yeah… twenty-seven texts from ‘Wrench Wrecker.’ He did understand you were gonna be climbing a fucking bridge, right? Up and then down and while up, you were gonna be busy hacking into a bitch of a surveillance set up.

There’s one text that starts off with the words ‘does this look infected to you?’ but thankfully an ellipsis hides the rest.

Sitara tries to go for your phone - tries to read them all - but with a rebel yell and jerk around, you escape her Amazonian arms and dash towards the docked boat. 

Under the shade, leaning over the bow, Wrench cheers at the sight of you, smacking the side of the hull with double-carets as you outrun a forgiving Sitara. There’s no way she’d not catch you; tackle you to the ground if she didn’t want to.

Sturdy, tattooed hands pluck at your waist, helping you into the boat while your pursuer grants you mercy, turning her attentions to convincing Marcus to let her steer the boat back to port. A narrow escape, but a victory nonetheless. Plus, you get bonus Wrench snuggles that leave you breathless. 

Double win.

It’d be four days later, of being too busy to fuck around with Wrench outside hacking into the Haum factory for new schematics on upgrades for Wrench Jr - and avoiding a close call with the mother fucking FBI - that opportunity comes knocking. 

You get the vibe that tonight might be chill enough to let loose, so… as a last minute gambit, you stuff the cuffs in your pack and hope for the best. Most of your spare time has been spent daydreaming about what qualified as dominance and exactly how far you were supposed to go before the sexy stuff veered into BDSM territory. It went without saying that, you could only hope the encryption you laid over your browser history was enough to keep someone as pervasive as Wrench from expecting what you had planned.

Well… planned was giving yourself too much credit. It was more a readiness to go with the flow when the opportunity presented itself. 

Amidst a mild, DedSec hosted party, Wrench rescues you from an awkward conversation about crossover fan fiction with two dudes who could have been hitting on you… or gay - you weren’t too sure, but either way you were thankful for the firm fingers around your elbow, dragging you out the back door into the warm night air. It also occurs to you that you knew who’d pulled you away from the party without having to hear his voice or see him at all. Wrench touches you in a way you’ve come to know like your own; inherent.

The outside wall of the bar hits your back before you can thank your hero for saving you from awkward nerd lingo. It’s here, under the glare of the full moon with a flickering fog light painting your face, that Wrench tugs his mask up just enough to give you a hard, half-drunk kiss. 

You spare an erratic, near-blind look out at the surrounding woods, looking for eyes but finding none and gradually begin to melt.

Wrench is always surprising you with every twist and turn, but it’s things like this that throw you for a loop. Of course, your shock doesn’t last past his tongue scraping the roof of your mouth… no, that shit doesn’t allow for much outside thought. Probably the only thing that could make you pull away from the hoppy taste of his mouth, and the slip and slide of his tongue around your own, would be him stealth stealing the cuffs out your sling pack… which... he does. Of course, he fucking does. 

You gasp against his urgent lips, twist along his firm torso to fight his hands for the fuzzy handcuffs, but one soft bite on your lower lip resets your brain. 

He wins this time, you think, as all that pent up lust from the past few days suddenly smacks you square in the face.

The back door opens in a reedy whine of rusty metal, but whoever was coming outside darts back in just as quickly. It could have been any number of the few dozen DedSec members from the party, but Wrench has his back to the door, hood up, and though his mask is lifted so he can delve deep into your mouth, no one can see him but you. 

Groaning, lips hovering, Wrench says the word “muffin” with all the breadth and sincerity of a confession. 

“What?” you try to ask; silenced by another hard, slanted kiss.

Wrench breathes, pulls away for a super distracting groan only to dip down again and kiss you soft enough you think you can feel your teeth rotting from the sweetness. 

He inhales through his nose, tips his hips in deep, pinning you to the cement wall, and starts a sloppy makeout session like a fucking pro. Wrench has gotten real good at this… too good. But even with his kisses dumbing you down, your brain backfires the word ‘muffin, ’ and with an amused sound against his lips and teeth, Wrench pulls back enough for you to chuckle.

“So, wait...” you pant, hugging him close, so he knows you’re not laughing at him, “... muffin? Is that like, a safe word or a new endearment?”

“Should I think of something harder to say? - Probably wanna make it more obscure. Difficult to pronounce. I’ve called you sugar muffin before haven’t I?”

There’s no way he can see with the mask lifted up just below the sharp bulge of his nose, so with a quick goodbye kiss, you lower his mask back down and give it an adjusting wiggle before the bright pixel feed comes back online. Wrench looks at you with mismatched double-zeros, humming in question.

“I think muffin should work just fine… but you gotta stop snooping in on my search history,” you tell him, expecting the quick, mocking laugh that pistons out his mask.

Wrench gives you a tilde-caret wink and says, “You knew what you signed up for when you used your saucy seductions on me, sugar muffin.”

Sure you did, you think, rolling your eyes in an odd mixture of annoyance and fondness. Being stalked was weird to look at as a positive, but the way Wrench did it, made your stomach do fucked up somersaults. Plus, it sorta came with the territory of associating with fellow hackers, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t done similar to him. Honestly, though you were looking forward to the cuffs being a surprise, maybe it was better this way - less chance for you to embarrass yourself. 

Besides, handcuffing your boyfriend probably required a bit more forethought than you’d put into it thus far. Which, in truth, was no forethought but grabbing the cuffs… and those Nudle searches that you’re only slightly embarrassed about.

With a blush, you ask him, “You wanna do this tonight or-”

“Tonight!” Wrench near-shouts, mask blinking exclamations and stars in quick succession. “Yes. Yes, please and thank you, ma’am. Oh, sweet supreme - with your sexy brain and these hips,” he squeezes said hips, “and the way the moonlight paints your smile and boo-”

“Alright, alright. Jeesh, dude,” you laugh, laying a palm over his vibrating chest, “say no more.” 

Fair enough, you think, ripping the fuzzy cuffs out of his loose grip with a snarky grin. “Just do me a favor and calm down before you blow your rudder. I don’t need a hundred lines of flattery to fuck you stupid.”

“Fuck me stupider,” he corrects, folding his palms around your hips; thumbs sliding under the hem of your shirt to tease bare skin. 

Twin hearts glow down at you. 

Has there ever been anyone more adorkable?

You smile back, nervous and red-cheeked but thankfully, Dr. Wrench prescribes a joint, which he proceeds to pull out of his back pocket like it’s a golden ticket. All the while, a harmonic rendition of the Jaw’s theme music hums out of his mask - the score rising as he lights the joint up between your lips. It's times like these that you realize you lucked out having met Wrench in your twenties and not in your teens because he’s the embodiment of peer pressure, and you’re weak against his charms to the point where there’s very little he won’t convince you to do. 

As you take a long drag, watching his double-x’s dissolve into underscores, you figure the sentiment goes both ways, but he’s the more ‘ambitious’ one that’ll get you both into trouble. The worst you could possibly manage was… was… handcuffing him to something sturdy, putting him in his place. Maybe. Who knows if you’ll even be able to pull that off.

Smoking weed behind a bar isn’t the craziest thing he’s had you do, far from it, but the danger still feels exhilarating. Despite the adrenaline running hard in your chest, the joint will calm you down - it’ll make you even hornier than you already are, but at least your nerves won’t be so jacked to hell.

The stink of weed must travel to the back of the bar because, after a few shared puffs, Josh’s voice comes through the crack in the door, “Is it safe now?”

Wrench’s mask blinks glitchy question marks, screwing his bared lips around the slow burning joint as you laugh out a stale puff of smoke. You give the all-clear and get a relieved sigh in return. Josh joins you and Wrench, helping to finish the joint fast enough that you both end up catching a ride home from a surprisingly sober Marcus but super shitfaced Sitara.

The van ride is full of epic rap battles, historic-style, and the general shouting back and forth about bullshit that sounds so perfect when you're stoned or drunk. In the backseat, you kick your feet up on the headrest, watching your weirdo of a boyfriend bouncing in his seat, singing off-sync lyrics with Sitara, whose all the way in the front passenger seat. 

You share a red-eyed look with Josh and laugh at the unamused, yet contentedly high expression on his face.

A few blocks away from the tattoo parlor, Sitara jumps out, fist bumping Marcus just before the door slams shut. Without missing a beat, Josh hops up front with Marcus, leaving Wrench to throw himself back beside you. He turns around as if to kiss you but instead of soft lips, there’s a faceful of metal spikes and though he gets you in the nose and it stings, you both can’t stop laughing like a couple of morons.

You both were still pleasantly high by the time the van came to a halt outside Wrench’s garage. 

“Ladies and Gentleman,” Marcus announces in his best hipster-tone, “if you look over to my right, you’ll see the exact spot where we’re about to dump these giggle-bitches. Josh,” he turns with a flourish of his wrist, “if you’ll do the honors.”

“Sure,” Josh replies, slurred and to the point. 

You giggle, proving Marcus correct as Josh hops out the car, opens the sliding door and just like that you and Wrench are ejected from the van, left on the pavement just beside the garage as Marcus and Josh reverse out the tight alleyway at warp-fucking-speed. 

Wrench flips them twin middle fingers, to which he gets a friendly wave in return from Josh and a returning bird from Marcus.

At some point Wrench must have told Marcus he had ‘personal’ plans with you, or - sensing the mood - Marcus had elected to drop you two off on your own far away from HQ. It was a smart move either way. Although, the fuzzy purple handcuffs hanging half out your pocket probably gave you both away better than anything else… then again, you could see Wrench telling Marcus in detail what he was going to be doing tonight - enough detail to make Marcus blush probably.

You don’t know whether the idea is flattering or insulting.

Either way one cut it, no one else but you wanted to see Wrench, in full-boner glory, prancing around. The garage was a better place to fuck Wrench stupid anyhow - much more private. Fewer distractions or concerns of scarring Marcus for life. 

That one time… had not been intentional.

Due to rarely being alone, you’ve long since gotten over the awkwardness of planned sex with Wrench, so when he turns to you and gives your butt a hearty squeeze, you yank on his vest lapels and give the front of his throat a wet kiss, “Ready to get fucked into submission by a little waif like me?”

“Fucking yes! Yes-fucking-please…” Wrench sighs, already sounding like you’ve got a heel on his sternum. 

You’re not sure you’ll put your literal foot on his chest or not, but the idea - what with the weed - sounds pretty hot. Almost everything involving him sounds hot as all hell at this point. You're pretty sure Wrench could turn the tables, cuff you in the alley and bend you over the dumpster without a word of retort from you. 

Hmm… maybe another time. The idea of dirty alley sex sounds kind of hot.

Inside the garage, is dark and messy. It smells of dirty oil and burnt plastic, which is the essence of Wrench when he’s been grinding hours on end. It’s the reek of anarchy - of metal spikes and leather - you’ve come to realize, and it’s not all that shocking that the dense aroma makes you all the more excited.

Wrench manually locks the garage doors behind you both. The flood lights pop on one at a time; blinking into existence like a half dead battery backup, exposing the utter chaos of the place.

“Just walking, like… the oh-so delicate caress of my boxers on my dick is literally about to make me blow. I’m way too jacked already,” Wrench remarks beside you, tugging the snug denim around his erection with pinched fingers. 

You watch, with upturned eyebrows, as he squats down a couple times, trying to release some of the pressure. Wrench shivers, tugging on the clothed boner against his thigh. Yeah… as if that’s going to help any. 

Wrench just groans; flashing LED double-nine’s like he’s on the verge of passing out.

“Quit that,” you demand, not intending it to come out so harsh, but it does, and his reaction is immediate. Wrench pauses in place, tatted throat bobbing; his mask a display of double-zeros. This… actually might be easier than you previously thought, which helps takes some of the pressure off.

The fuzzy handcuffs feel too soft for Wrench, but they’ll work, and the ridiculous, bright purple of them helps take away some of the seriousness of the moment. It’s kinda adorable when Wrench wheezes as you tug the cuffs out your pocket, hearing them click despite the fuzz.

With a careful smile - that must look more dangerous than you think - you tow him by the wrist and ask, “Try not to mess your jeans until I’ve at least got you handcuffed, alright? I’ve got a… idea.” 

And you actually do. 

For the past couple of weeks, you’ve been waiting for the right time to give Wrench Jr. Jr. that kiss he’s been deserving. Tonight seems like the perfect opportunity. While Wrench isn’t selfish in bed, you wouldn’t put it past him to push your head down while he’s ‘lost in the moment.’ With his hands cuffed, there’s gonna be less chance he’ll gag you with that supreme dick of his.

You pause, realizing you’d been teething the tip of your tongue while eye fucking his crotch.

“Serious, LowRes…” Wrench breathes, bumping his boner up against your hip with a hiss, “if you keep upping the momentum my weiner might tear a hole through these pants.”

“Now that’d be fucking hilarious,” you reply, jerking his wrist until he stumbles against you, grappling for your shoulders but you've already developed the itch to boss him around and easily tip him back onto the hood of the Charger. 

Wrench gasps, sounding a lot less boisterous than usual as you plant a knee between his thighs and fumble behind his back until his brain kicks in and he lifts up, folding his wrists behind his back. The inked up flesh, rippling with tendon and veins, looks overwhelmingly sexual all locked up like this. It’s enough to make you moan… much to Wrench’s breathy amusement.

“... are we finding out some new stuff about ourselves tonight?” He asks - all electric snark and giddiness.

“Hush, now,” you whisper, shutting that shit down real fast with a palm shoved down over his stomach, pressing him over the buffed hood. Stiff, lean muscles jump under your hand and, as if he can’t help himself, Wrench dry humps the air until you start fingering the button on his jeans.

Staring at your fingers undoing his pants, Wrench blinks double-zeros and stars until you finally manage his zipper. The metal teeth pop open; noisy against the blood-flooded cock begging to be let loose. It’s almost overwhelming when his dick springs free, sliding up from the opening in his boxers like it’s self-aware or something. The bead of metal threading under the pronounced hood always looks so painful when he’s this hard and that one long vein that curls down the side makes your tongue feel fat in your mouth. 

Despite the three times Wrench has lifted his mask and gotten on his knees for you, you haven’t blown him yet… and it’s not that you don’t want to... it’s more to do with the fact that you never thought you were all that good at it, but there’s something about having Wrench’s shoulders bundled up around his neck - about his wrists being bound and the way he’s all tensed up waiting to be fucked dumb - that banishes your nerves. 

Either Wrench didn’t care about getting his dick sucked or hadn’t wanted to pressure you, but the way his inner thighs jump under the wrinkled of denim, tells you he knows what’s about to happen… maybe his brain’s lighting off fireworks and cheers galore.

The dregs of weed help feed your courage too as you slid down to your knees, palms pressing his inner thighs open.

“Fuck me. Oh! Fuck me...” he barely gets out before his electric curse is lost in a slurry of throaty nonsense - your tongue running a wet line up the firm bridge on the underside of his dick… all the way up to body-warmed metal threaded through his skin. 

He tastes salty and a little sour, but the mild flavor readies you for the potent, sticky pre cum that hits the tip of your tongue.

A full body shudder wracks Wrench’s body, and with all the subtlety of a bulldozer, he falls back on the hood of the Charger with a hard thunk and sighs lovingly, “Holy fuck! Praise the Lord and pass the fucking ammunition, LowRes… I think I just died and this is… heaven!”

You can't help it, with your lips spread over the head of his cock, you laugh as Wrench prays incoherently; half-serious. His response to your lack of skill it reassuring, enough so that you open your jaw wide and swallow him down until the hardy twitch of his cock tickles your throat, just short of your gag reflex. Another burst of flavor sticks to the back of your tongue, but it’s almost delicious… in a weird, super salty sort of way.

“... mouth hug!” Wrench slurs, arching his back and star-inked hips as you figure out how much dick you can fit in your mouth without choking. There’s no point in pushing yourself… or him for that matter. 

By the way he slaps his hooded head into the metal and grunts, he’s not far off from cumming and despite not being all that prepared for any of this, you suck, work your lips up and down, and fist the excess of his dick until he's shivering. 

“Shit, dude - Low-” he tries, hips snapping up; sliding another fat inch down your throat until you gag and pull off; spit stringing between the shiny dick piercing and your parted lips. 

“Fuck… sorry… damn, that’s hot.” Wrench is staring down his stomach at you with double-zeros, breathing heavy as spit cools on your chin. 

Not super flattering. Oral sex was messy but with the right person - Wrench - it was also incredibly enjoyable. With a wet smile, you delve back down and open your throat until you’re just at the end of your limit.

Wrench struggles, huffing behind the mask until his muffled panting turns into clipped whiny grunts that start making your stomach do somersaults. He whimpers, hips bouncing high enough that you shove both hands over his hip bones and pin him down; hard. The shove causes the cock in your mouth to twitch and just in the nick of time, you lift off before Wrench can cum in your mouth. 

A choppy, pained moan eases out behind the mask, and you fully expect for the pulsating cock in front of you to start squirting, but it just gives a solid twitch and bobs still.

“... shiznit. You so should have pilfered a cock ring when you stole these handcuffs,” Wrench comments, chest rising and falling hard and fast while his legs tense and wiggle around your ribs. From under his side, his pink fingers squirm, looking uncomfortable but the tilde-caret wink say’s he's unconcerned by the poor circulation. “Not sure I’m ready for this moment to end.”

With a swipe of your tongue over your lower lip and a gentle squeeze to his dick, you grin, “Ya know… it’s not like I’m gonna throw them away once you finish.”

“Yeah, but,” Wrench bangs his head back on the Charger and deflates, “... you’re like the kryptonite to my virility. One day you’ll breath on it heavy and BAM!”

“Are you saying I should stop?”

“Hell, no!” he shouts, curling his stomach to spear you with mad slashes. It’s ridiculous - the cuffs, his red, studded dick… the pixel glare and the tapestry of tattoos leading up to the spikes. 

Ridiculous… and hot as fuck. 

You smirk, wrangle his cock around in your fist, and part your lips for another mouthful. The noises he makes are different than when you fuck, or maybe they’re the same but sound different without your own moans mingling.

You’re so wrapped up in laying your tongue into the thick underside of dick while sucking up and swallowing down that you nearly miss his begging. A leak of precum fills your mouth with renewed salt just as you pull back once again, softening the pressure of your lips as the head of his cock goes free.

“P-please… shit, damn. That was one close...ugh, call. I- I’ve got a request before the big finale.”

“Shoot,” you say, swallowing the tang of Wrench’s dick, “... or don’t shoot.”

“I want you,” he declares with double-x’s, jabbing a shoulder up as if gesturing to his head, “... up here. On my face. Then you can suck me dry if you so choose.”

Your smile drops, “What?”

“Yeah, you know… facesitting? Good ol’ sixty-nine. Do you not watch porn or something? - wait, no I’ve seen your browser history. I know you do. Don’t play dumb.”

“I’ve… never done that before,” you admit, feeling your face grow hot.

Wrench sighs dreamily, mask a bright wash of twin stars before blinking back into double- x’s, “Neither have I. First time for everything right?” 

You want to argue with him - make some excuse, but you have nothing to be ashamed of. He’s already eaten you out several times and seen… everything. There’s no reason the idea of sitting on Wrench’s face should make you so nervous. You’re still a little stoned too and yet…

“Obviously, you’ll have to remove the mask for me. Wouldn’t be for lack of trying, but I don’t think I can shove my tongue through leather,” Wrench jokes, but you haven’t found your voice yet, still squeezing the meat of his dick with red cheeks and, probably, a scared look on your face. 

“Come on,” he pleads, “... early Christmas present?”

It’s hard, near impossible to say no to those sad slashes, especially under the right context. You don’t even bother trying to make an excuse. The way his dick pulses in your fist as you sigh - knowing he’s convinced you - only makes you eager for retaliation later.

“... yesss,” Wrench whispers under the mask - under his breath - as you get up off your knees and unbutton your jeans. The sight of your black, hip hugger panties makes Wrench tap his sneaker heels on the floor, whistling in excitement. While the fact that Wrench is this pumped up to get you on his face, you feel awkward tugging your panties off and even more so while crawling up on the Charger hood besides him. His LED’s are aimed down between your legs where, yes… you're drenched.

Carefully, you hook your thumbs and forefinger under the cusp of his mask, feel the soft give of leather and ease it up over his forehead until the bright pixels break into rainbow mess and his nose wiggles free. This whole evening was meant to put Wrench in his place, so - in an act of rebellion - you leave the spiky folds of leather wrinkled over his eyes, making sure the delicate electronics of the display is safe behind the hood. 

“Uhh… what are you doing?” Wrench asks, thinning his lips.

“Blindfolding you, duh,” you reply, feeling less vulnerable now that he can’t see you swing a bare thigh over his head, pinning your knees just above his shoulder. “Just use your imagination.”

“Party pooper,” Wrench sighs, though you can see the peak of his super smug grin between your thighs. 

For fuck’s sake… you swallow, take a long calming breath and whisper “ready” before lowering yourself over Wrench’s mouth. He must have pussy vision or something because even without sight, he gets his tongue right up under your clit; first try. As usual, he’s merciless, and with a stifled whimper you brace your palms down on the steel hood around his hips, feeling both electrified and disoriented as he tongues you with relish.

Under your hooded gaze, Wrench’s dick pulsates, leaking a little string of precum along the tattooed ‘E’ on his stomach. 

Man… if only you hadn’t left your phone in your crumpled jeans on the floor, you’d be tempted to snap a quick pic of that, fat studded dick… 

Instead of admiring in through a lens, you get to lean down and give it a wet kiss. Between your legs, Wrench groans; mouth open along your folds. His shoulders roll against your knees as his chin tips up against your mound.

“If you’ve got the cameras recording this… you’re dead,” you tell him, to which Wrench chuckles. His giggles run into a long, sloppy moan as soon as you take the head of his dick into your mouth again. 

It’s hard to concentrate on the task at hand while he’s swirling his tongue around your nub, sucking on delicate flesh, spearing inside your cunt. Blood rushes to your face, mainly because of the downward angle… but also the things Wrench is doing while you try your best to blow him. The metal jewelry under the head of his cock bumps the roof of your mouth until your throat opens and it meets the softer, more forgiving heat further down. Saliva slips down past your lips, lubricating your fingers that wrap and fuck the base; slow and firm.

“Ha…” Wrench gasps, head hitting the Charger hard enough the hood rattles, “ho-holy fuck! I’m gonna cum… fuck, fuck… Low-”

Warm, almost hot, spurts of cum paint the back of your tongue. The taste barely registers. You're too focused on gulping as much down as you can to worry about how odd of a flavor it really is. Wrench’s hips thrust as he cums. His head turns, shoving his nose and a murder of spikes into your inner thigh; cursing and panting through his orgasm.

Don’t gag, you pray, eyes watering on a final, thick gulp.

Gasping, lips slipping along the tip of his metal-studded dick, you give Wrench a last long squeeze of your fist, and try not to startle when another dribble of cum leaks out the slit, oozing down your curled fingers to mingle with your cooling spit. His dick looks raw - looks beaten and with a wet smile, you laugh.

“What was that shit you said before,” you breathe deep, exhaling in another chuckle, “... back at BDSMania? When you’re good, you’re good? Well… I think that applies here as well.”

“... ooooh, I was trying to hold off until you did your thing but, Jesus Christ! Fuck!” Wrench sounds, mouthing words against your inner thigh until he manages a breathy chuckle and bites the tender skin hard enough you jolt. 

“Hey now-”

“Hey now,” he interrupts, leaning up to swipe the tip of his tongue along the crease of your inner thigh and soaked folds, “... you uh… wanna sit back down and let me finish you off or what?”

Wrench’s drained cock starts to soften against his stomach while your knees shift, bumping his shoulders. You kneel further down, brace both your palms on his chest and sit back over his wide, open-mouthed smirk. 

You’ll never hear the end of this. He’ll mention it to Marcus for sure… and anyone else who will listen, but the rattle of his breathing under your hands and the sloppy sounds he makes as he eats you out kinda stops you from giving a shit. 

It’s harder for you to get off when you’re not on your back, something about your abdominal muscles tensing to keep you upright which ruins the smooth ride, but the view is enough to counterbalance that. The taste of cum in your mouth adds to your arousal and any difficulty you’d have had in cumming yourself, is killed by the wiggling fingers trapped under Wrench’s back; wrists locked with those handcuffs. 

“This is… “ you sigh, blushing as your hips start to rock back and forth over Wrench’s flat tongue, “... so embarrassing.” 

But it feels even better than the other times he’s done this. That gentle pressure of your own orgasm starts building in your belly, coming on so slow and soft that you can tell it’s going to be a good one. Wrench tips his head back, skimming you with the taunt tip of his tongue and goes to fucking town without warning. 

“... oh,” is all you manage as the distant climax comes rushing into your gut like a broken dam. Your fingers curl inside the warmth of his hoodie, feeling his hard breathing. Each muscle in your lower body starts to twitch and bounce as you cum, nearly making you lose your balance as Wrench sucks your clit with ruthless precision. 

If given a chance, he’ll force you through a minute of painful bliss, but… you can’t handle another one of those orgasms without falling over. Hell, you try to sit back up and feel the hard shake in your legs and barely get off him before slumping over on your back; head hanging off the Charger like someone up and dropped you there. 

“Well, damn,” Wrench exhales, noisily licking his lips clean, “you wanna make this a regularly scheduled event?” 

Weakly, you open your eyes to glare out at the stained ceiling. If your head weren't spinning, you’d have rolled your eyes but… your head is indeed spinning from that epic tongue lashing and an eye roll might kill you. 

Unable to help himself, Wrench continues, “I’m thinking every Sunday evening. Great way to kick off the work week, am I right?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re… incredible?”

“Every morning in the bathroom mirror. And now, of course,” Wrench quips back happily.

You can’t help but smile. With a long, tired groan, you roll upwards, scoot your bare ass into Wrench's hip and help readjust his mask - after blushingly wiping off the shine around his chin and cheeks. 

Messy, indeed, you realize once more. 

When the rainbow error feed resyncs with his face, you’re happy to meet his double carets with a dopey smile of your own.

“... was that alright for a first time Dom?” You ask. 

“Can’t speak for the whole BDSM community, but! - you rocked my world.” Heart emoticons sell his words with an added cherry on top, making your chest flutter. At his side, his fingers wiggle dramatically until your brain kicks back into proper gear and you help tug him up into a sitting position. He sighs when the cuffs come off. 

Despite the fluff, his wrists are ringed in red, sporting some telltale bruises that’ll look like shit in the morning. You suppose it’s only fair. He’s left his fair share of hand prints and finger marks on you already, and you’d be lying if you said the sight wasn’t a little thrilling.

“Can I be honest with you?” Wrench asks after cracking his knuckles and rubbing some feeling back into them. His mask displays question marks, peering over at you as you wiggle your hips back into your panties.

“When are you not?” You laugh but pause when he doesn’t chuckle or even huff quietly for that matter. It’s not unusual for Wrench to get a bit sentimental after cumming… but you don’t want to give him the wrong impression, so you pause and smile. 

“Everything alright?”

“Yea… yeah, no everything’s great. It’s just…” he trails off, ellipsis appearing on his display.

Sentimental stuff doesn’t concern you, but Wrench usually knows what he wants to say. The fact that he doesn’t… well, now you’re a bit worried. Carefully, you sit down beside him on the edge of the Charger, in your underwear, and lay a hand on his jean-clad thigh, waiting for him to find his words.

Wrench lays his hand over your own. The stark purple abrasions around his wrist make you swallow thickly, still waiting.

With apprehension starting to claw at your throat, Wrench blinks double-x’s and stares at you as he says, “I think we should take our relationship to the next level.”

Already his hammy tone makes your eyes narrow.

“How do you feel about butt stuff?”

“Oh my god,” you groan, ripping your hand off his thigh only for him to dissolve into a mess of giggles and slap happy glee. 

“You’re the worst. What is it with you and the anal fixation?” you ask; arms folded under your tits with a twitching frown that desperately wants to twist into a smile.

“I think I was a proctologist in my past life. Like, a really good proctologist. Very dedicated.”

“Yeah, well,” you shove him to the side so you can pull your jeans back on, “that’s what porn is for. You’re not getting so much as a finger back there if I have anything to say about it.”

“Fair enough!” he exclaims, lounging back with his arms folded behind his head and twin carets blazing up at you, “anal with you would be like… I dunno, having my metaphorical cake and eating it too.”

“Ugh… “

Wrench can convince you to do just about anything, and though he’s gotten you to think crashing speed boats is all good fun, there’s no way he’ll convince you that ‘butt stuff’ is up your alley. 

He won’t. He can’t.

“Well,” Wrench sighs dreamily, “even though I already ate a delicious, scrumptious morsel… I could use some french fries. You want ‘another’ milkshake? I'm starving.”

You button your jeans with gusto, give him a once over and smirk, “Sure, just don’t stick a french fry up my ass and we’ll be fine.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it! That being said, Cheesy Barn does sell hot dogs now.”

Oh, if the mind could vomit...

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you for reading. If you have the time, please leave me a comment so I know what works and what doesn't. It helps. I promise. And thank you again, Fiction. I got to work on this while I was recovering from a car accident and on my new laptop no less - it was just what I needed. <3
> 
> Also, thanks to Darth Fucamus for reading this over for pacing issues before posting.
> 
> [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/LydiaBrim)   
>  [INSTAGRAM](https://www.instagram.com/brim_brim_brim_brim/)


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